


Royal Blood

by abbacchihoe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, POV Third Person, Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, jeankasa - Freeform, or "fangst" as i like to call it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 23:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbacchihoe/pseuds/abbacchihoe
Summary: In which Mikasa, while ruminating over all Ambassador Kiyomi had revealed, receives assurance from an unanticipated--but welcome--source.





	Royal Blood

**Author's Note:**

> it's your friendly neighborhood jeankasa stan (yet) again! i'm addicted to writing these two, i swear! also, WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!!  
> anyway, this takes place the night mikasa was informed that she's royal(ish)? the "ish" & "?" added bc idk wtf's going on in snk anymore. then again, when have i EVER? then THEN again, when has ANYONE ever?  
> also, it's probably obvious, but i altered my writing style so it's no longer as verbose & complicated. you're welcome.

_“You…are the descendant of our nation’s lost lord.”_

_“You are Hizuru’s hope.”_

These words replayed in Mikasa’s head long after they were uttered, as did the incident during which they were.

Mikasa felt as if every tidbit of information concerning her bloodline she had been told as a child, her entire _life,_ even, were nothing but fibs, as if she needn’t have spent the better part of her life protecting others; others should have been protecting her all along.

But no. It was more likely for Sasha to live on Nicolo’s cooking alone than it was for Mikasa to suddenly cease safeguarding those she cared for deeply. Protecting others came as naturally to her as winding her scarf around her neck day after day, felt as familiar to her as its fabric against her throat. And now here was something else she was supposed to become accustomed to: being a product of royalty, albeit barely.

Hours had passed since her royal lineage had been revealed, and she was _still_ struggling to comprehend it all: how she, a girl whose idea of a fun time was exercising until she felt as if she would faint, vomit, or both; a girl who was essentially as ungirly as could be, would be residing in Mitras, would be dressed by everybody but herself each morning, would have each meal of hers sampled so as to ascertain it hadn’t been poisoned, had she not been the sole person in all of Paradis who was of Asian descent.

It was times like these that Mikasa wished they had never vanquished the titans (most of them, anyway), never uncovered the series of truths surrounding them, and above all, wished they had never discovered what—or rather, who—was across the ocean the entire time, antagonizing them anonymously. Had her world still been small, an entire other half of it hidden behind imposing walls, she certainty wouldn’t be here right now, incessantly pacing across the expanse of grass that encircled the barracks, wringing her pale, perspiration-sprinkled hands more repeatedly and restlessly than ever before, fearing that Kiyomi would one day coerce her into breeding like a rabbit at an unreasonable age as a means to preserve her bloodline, like how basically everybody but Eren, herself, and several others wished for Historia to procreate as much as she possibly could in hopes that her offspring might inherit Zeke Yeager’s Beast Titan.

Mikasa would never allow herself to be made into a mindless machine, existing solely to reproduce, and nor would any of her friends, close or otherwise. But even so, she couldn’t help but worry, because Kiyomi was powerful in a prestigious sense, whereas Mikasa was in a physical sense and, more often than not, being prestigiously powerful prevailed over being physically powerful.

Mikasa had been so engrossed in ruminating over all this that it hadn’t occurred to her that at some point Jean had joined her outside until her forehead bumped into his sleepshirt-clad chest in the near-darkness; the fact that he hadn’t stepped aside indicated that he wanted to be found.

“Can’t sleep?” He inquired as she extended the space between them with two almost soundless footsteps; no sooner had she did so than she immediately wished she hadn’t; she missed his warmth, his cedar scent, his heartbeat against her forehead, the rapidity of which increased the longer it had remained there.

Funny how of all places her forehead could’ve settled upon, it involuntarily decided on his heart. Or perhaps it hadn’t been so involuntary after all…

“Why else would I be out here?” Mikasa asked in an effort to distract herself from the feelings she had for Jean, feelings that were progressing even further as he stood before her, his arms folded across his chest, the slight breeze further disheveling his caramel hair.

“Mind telling me _why_ you’re out here?” He pressed, his sharp eyebrows—which she had once considered almost menacing, but now considered as comforting as a cup of scalding tea or a fuzzy blanket—furrowing in concern.

The thing she loved the most about Jean was his inability to leave things be, his steadfastness. But oh, how she wished he was anything but right now.

In a voice softer than it ordinarily was, so soft, in fact, that Jean leaned indescribably closer, she said, “I’m out here because…because there’s royal blood in my veins, barely there, but there nonetheless, and according to Ambassador Kiyomi, I’m Hizuru’s only hope, because apparently my life isn’t stressful enough already, huh? Also, Kiyomi probably—no, _definitely—_ intends to breed me like an animal, and—”

Sometime during her uncharacteristic verbosity, she had begun to cry, which was Jean’s incentive to embrace her, to run his fingers through her raven hair reassuringly—or longingly. Either way, a faint blush appeared on her cheeks, even as tears streamed down them.

He didn’t dare speak until her sobs had somewhat subsided. “Come to think of it, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say all at once,” He even managed a chuckle, somehow. “Seriously though, so what if there’s royal blood running through those veins of yours? You’re still the same Mikasa Ackerman I fell in l—I mean, I met! And if we’re being honest here, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to discover that you’re basically a secret princess. I mean, you’re practically a queen, given that you’re always ordering people around…”

_“Jean.”_

His breath, warm and smelling faintly of cinnamon, tickled the nape of her neck as he laughed heartily in spite of the fact that she had been weeping against his chest moments ago. “My apologies, _Princess Mikasa._ I am deeply sorry for having offended you. _”_

She withdrew herself from his embrace to swat at his arm playfully—or flirtatiously, if she was even capable of such a feat.

“My point is,” He continued, “being a product of royalty doesn’t change a damn thing about you, nor does it make you any more important; you’re as important as…oh, hell, you’re just really fucking important, all right?”

“I’m flattered,” Mikasa said in a tone of voice that suggested she wasn’t the slightest bit flattered, although she was, indubitably, “but no amount of flattery will make me feel even the tiniest bit human the instant Ambassador Kiyomi begins breeding me like swine—”

“No one’s breeding anyone like swine,” Interjected Jean. “And if Ambassador Kiyomi wants to breed you like one, she’ll have to go through me first.”

She beheld all there was of him to behold—his lankiness, his sleep-mussed hair that didn’t quite frame his elongated face, his eyes, which were as warm as the honey they reminded her of—and laughed.

“What?!” Jean exclaimed as he frenziedly inspected his biceps, which were otherwise obscured beneath his shirt’s threadbare fabric. He then flexed them—well, what little there was of them, anyway. “Admit it. I’m ripped, and so much so that I can kick her ass.”

Rather than admit to his robustness, or rather, lack thereof, Mikasa said, simply, “You’re only embarrassing yourself by doing that, you realize.”

Jean’s arms became pendulous once more and he frowned, feigning crestfallenness. “Yeah, I know. Obviously, you’re the stronger of the two of us, emotionally _and_ physically, as a matter of fact, which is one of the million reasons why I lo—like you! Platonically! Yeah!”

Mikasa’s demeanor changed at once, like a candle the instant a flame, large or small, licks its wick. “You fucking coward. You act so cocky, so confident, yet for some absurd reason, you can’t bring yourself to admit what it is you’re the most confident of.”

Unconsciously, blinded by irritation, she stepped forth; by now they were as close as they were when she had wept against his chest minutes before, though she had never felt further apart from him.

He tipped his head downwards to meet her gaze; in her fury, she had completely forgotten that he towered over her, how he seemed to grow an inch taller every week. They were growing up, all of them. The fact frightened her. “And what might that be?”

The breeze swept her ebony bangs into her eyes; she paid this no mind. “Your feelings for me.”

He sighed, not in exasperation, but rather, relief. “If you insist.” Then: “I love you, Mikasa.”

He brushed her bangs away from her face; his fingers lingered in her hair for a prolonged period of time, during which it occurred to Mikasa that as Jean touched her hair as tentatively as if she were made of porcelain, everything that had been petrifying her previously—their emergences into adulthood, her royal lineage, the possibility of Ambassador Kiyomi breeding her like swine—seemed infinitesimal.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to kiss a princess…” Jean mused as he eyed her lips the way a drowning man eyes a life preserver or a patch of land, however small.

“Then what are you waiting for,” She whispered before she clutched at the ends of his hair and kissed him hard enough to hurt, or at the very least unnerve.

But he made no effort whatsoever to tear his lips from hers, to retreat to the boys’ barracks, where he would bury himself beneath thin blankets, his lips the only area of his skin that hadn’t erupted in gooseflesh. He didn’t respond in kind straightaway; little did she know that he had pinched himself several times before doing so, ascertaining that he was not, in fact, dreaming. He kissed her back eventually, though, and when he did, he did so with a ferocity she had anticipated, one she ultimately echoed, albeit with much difficulty, as neither was particularly accustomed to something as trivial, something as _normal_ —as kissing.

In truth, there was nothing trivial about kissing, though it was most certainly normal; neither of their lives had ever been normal, not even when they had been small and unsuspecting, and as long as there was a war to fight, they never would be. But until then, they could indulge in normalcy every now and then. They had every right to do so, after all.

And so, they kissed. They would’ve done so for hours, if not for the whimper Mikasa emitted when Jean’s teeth tore her lips, drawing blood.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked at once, grasping her shoulders securely, concern overwhelming his features.

She shook her head, and a sole droplet of blood flew from her lips and landed, peculiarly, on Jean’s.

Perhaps it was poetical—her blood, the likes of which was royal, upon his lips, the likes of which she had kissed. She suspected it was, though instead of apprising him of this, she merely said, “You got a little something right there,” gesturing at her own pair of lips.

The droplet of blood disappeared as he brushed his knuckles across it. He then seized her hand and tugged her towards him, pressing his lips against her own set of knuckles.

“I am tremendously sorry to have spilled your blood, Princess Mikasa. I assure you it will never recur. Please, allow me to redeem myself.”

He kissed her ears, her cheeks, her nose, and Mikasa giggled all the while. To Jean, her laughter was as lovely as it was infrequent, which made suppressing his sorrow when she kissed him once more and thus silenced it, all the more difficult.

Though he was thankful to be kissing her again.

Long ago, Jean had concluded that if Mikasa were to ever return his affections, he would treat her as if she were of royal blood.

If only he had known then that she would one day return his affections hundredfold, and that there actually _was_ royal blood coursing through her veins continuously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
